


Warmer Than Iron

by kdm103020



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Earth-3490, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Identity Porn, M/M, Pining Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-06-29 13:09:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19830892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kdm103020/pseuds/kdm103020
Summary: The morning Steve finds Natasha Stark naked in Iron Man’s bed, he immediately realizes three things.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stark-natasha](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stark-natasha).



The morning Steve finds Natasha Stark naked in Iron Man’s bed, he immediately realizes three things. 

First and foremost, he should have knocked. He usually does out of deference to Shellhead’s privacy and in his defense, he’d fully expected the room to be empty. He wasn’t expecting Iron Man back from California until later this morning, and since he hadn’t told Steve about any change in his plans, Steve had felt comfortable enough to make his way upstairs with the morning paper’s scathing review of the latest Hammer tech. He’d figured it would make a nice welcome home surprise for his friend. Turns out, Steve was the one who was in for a surprise, because that is undoubtedly one Natasha Antonia Stark sprawled face-down on Iron Man’s bed, her arms cradling a pillow, her dark hair fanned out over her back, and her body gentling stirring to consciousness. He wants, he _needs,_ to look away — This is an intimacy that does not belong to him — but his eyes remain unwittingly affixed to the figure on the bed. 

This leads him to his second revelation: Iron Man and Stark are apparently…together. What degree of “together” he can’t exactly say, but it’s definitely the kind of “together” that ends up with one partner sleeping alone and naked in the other’s bed while the other is out of town. Are they dating? Long term partners? Friends with benefits? Who knows? Steve doesn’t, Steve _didn’t,_ but his former ignorance has been stripped from him, and now there’s nothing he can do from keeping new and pesky thoughts from burrowing into the recesses of his brain. 

Because as Steve backs his way out of the room and tries to avoid eye contact with a bleary-eyed Natasha, he realizes one more thing with uncomfortable, painful clarity. 

Steve’s primary reaction to seeing a smart, beautiful woman naked in his best friend’s bed isn’t shock or envy or lust. He doesn’t want to seek Iron Man out to congratulate him or ask for all of the pertinent details about his relationship. Steve doesn’t want to talk to anybody about anything at all right now. 

Because Steve’s instinctual response to thinking about Natasha Stark and Iron Man as a couple is _No._

* * *

_He’s a horrible friend._

He acknowledges this, even as he stumbles down the hallway and blatantly ignores Natasha’s voice calling out for him to stop. 

Iron Man deserves the world and resenting the fact that he’s seeing someone is just petty of him. But quite frankly, he’s never had to deal with the prospect of Iron Man dating because he’d never consciously acknowledged that it was an option. Shellhead had always been vague about his relationship to the suit, but he’s implied multiple times that he relies on the machinery to live. Steve erroneously assumed that would throw a wrench into any potential relationship. Given that combined with the Avengers’ hectic schedule and the sheer amount of time that Iron Man spends at headquarters…it doesn’t seem like there would be enough hours in the day. The lifestyle has certainly prevented Steve from forming any serious romantic attachments over the years. 

But Stark…Stark changes things. Natasha Stark isn’t some random fangirl or a grateful New Yorker. She’s their benefactor. She’s the brain and the muscles behind most of their tech. She’s Iron Man’s boss and the woman behind his suit.

_She knows his face. She knows his name._

Steve supposes it’s only natural that two people who spend so much time together might be drawn to one another. They’re both smart, driven workaholics who care deeply about the Avengers and the values the group upholds. Their relationship makes sense, which makes Steve’s visceral opposition to their being together romantically so bizarre. 

_She has too much of him already. He doesn’t belong to her_. _He belongs —_

It’s fine _._ Shellhead is owed happiness, and if he thinks he can find happiness with Natasha Stark…more power to him. Steve can learn to live with it. 

* * *

He doesn’t have to live with it right away though. 

He walks straight from Iron Man’s bedroom to the gym, and he stays there until his hair and his clothes are soaked, which, given his metabolism, is quite a feat. Working himself to the point of exhaustion takes time and significant effort on his part, but it’s not enough to quiet the persistent voices in his head. His doubts play on a mental loop, carving furrows deeper in his brain with each revolution. 

_Iron Man has someone else. Else? Why else? Who did he have in the first place? Did you think you had some sort of claim on him? You’re colleagues. Friends. Best friends even. He owes you nothing. He’s told you nothing. He would have told you if he trusted you. He’s not yours to lose. He has someone else._

He’s just gotten himself showered and dressed when a familiar voice stops him in his tracks. 

“So I heard you got a bit of a show this morning.”

“Shellhead!” Steve spins to see the familiar red and gold suit leaning against the gym wall. His insides immediately jump, as they so often do when he sees his friend, and for a moment the past couple of hours lift from his mind. Then Iron Man’s words settle in, and he immediately remembers his massive faux pas. “I am so, so sorry.”

Iron Man straightens and walks towards him. “Cap, it’s really not that big of a deal. We’re all adults here.”

“It’s your life, though. I’d never intentionally barge into…something like that.”

 _I didn’t know it was something that I could barge into. Much less on_ her _._

 _“_ Yeah…” The voice manages to sound chagrined, even through the suit’s filter. “Tasha and I…We’re both private people.”

“I kind of sensed that.” It comes off sharper than he intends. 

“Problem?”

“I just,” he stumbles. “I didn’t see that one coming.”

“Uh huh. Do we have a problem?” Iron Man asks, crossing his arms. 

_Yes._

“No!” Steve exclaims, suddenly worried that this friend has somehow been a silent witness to his innermost thoughts. It wouldn’t be the first time that the two of them were almost eerily in sync. “Why would we have a problem?”

Iron Man pauses. “I just never got the feeling that you liked Tasha all that much.”

Steve tries his best to keep his face neutral, but he internally winces. He doesn’t exactly _hate_ Natasha Stark. Hate would be too strong a word given his lack of substantive interactions with the woman. But over the years, she’s made it very clear that her relationship to the group is a strictly professional one. She funds them, she supplies them with tech and that’s it. Her time is valuable, she’s not a den mother, and socializing isn't on her list of duties. If there’s something that requires her attention, they can tell JARVIS or Iron Man, and they will pass on the appropriate information. She’ll have the necessary equipment delivered directly to their floors, and if they could try not to break it this time, that’d be great. 

Her mandated interactions with Steve really haven’t been that great either. The few press conferences and fundraisers where Steve’s been forced to interact with the woman have been lackluster at best. Stark draws attention like a flame draws a moth, and Steve does everything in his power to avoid that. He’s grateful for the way that she diverts attention away from him, but his primary goal is to leave her presence as soon as possible. It’s easier. 

Still, their pattern of passing nods and terse public cordiality has worked well enough for the both of them, and he sees no reason to fix something that isn’t broken. If Ms. Stark prefers to keep her distance from the team, he can respect her need for space. If anything, he’s grateful for the lack of oversight.

Iron Man obviously doesn’t require the same degree of space. Or want it. Just the opposite, apparently. 

He owes his friend an answer, but he has no idea what to say. “It’s complicated, he insists. “She seems…” he struggles for a word to express his feelings, but none seem adequate. “Nice,” he concludes lamely.

“Nice?” Shellhead’s voice has taken on the same flat tone he uses when he’s trying to remain neutral in mission briefings, which prompts Steve to go on the defensive. 

“I mean it! Smart, charismatic, beautiful —”

“So what’s the issue?”

_I’ve never really had much to do with her and now she has what’s mine._

“Nothing. She’s just…intimidating. Very, very intimidating.”

Iron Man shifts at that, punching out a rebuttal in a baffled staccato. “You. Are. Captain. America. You fought Nazis. You _volunteered_ to fight Nazis!”

“Punching Nazis is straightforward and emotionally satisfying. Small talk is…” he struggles to find the right words; there aren’t any, so he just blurts out everything. “Natasha Stark the richest woman in the world, has five PhDs, and has the President of the United States on speed dial.” _Not to mention you’re sleeping with her._ “What would I even say?”

“Hello?!”

“Well it just seems obvious when you put it that way,” he concedes. 

“I’m not buying it,” Iron Man says. “You and I manage small talk just fine.”

“Yes, but we’ve fought aliens together. It’s an ice breaker.”

“Not to mention I literally broke you out of ice.”

Steve nods. “There is that.”

“So Tasha needs to fight off extraterrestrial invaders to be worthy of your attention?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

_It would help. Possibly. Probably not._

He mutes the voice in his head and presses on. “The three of us should spend time together,” he insists. That’s what you do, right? When your best friend starts seeing someone?

“What?” Iron Man asks.

“If she’s that important to you, Steve insists, “I should make an effort to get to know her better.”

_Better that than to lose you. I can’t lose you._

“Tasha is very busy,” his friend offers. “We all are. Getting the three of us in the same room at the same would be damn near impossible.”

It’s the perfect excuse. Better than an excuse, because it’s technically true. The three of them have avoided interacting for years, all content to operate in their little groupings of two. It would be so easy to continue on with the way things were before. But things aren’t the way that they are before, and they probably haven’t been for a long time if this morning’s little display is anything to go by. It’s probably his ignorance that’s sent him into such a visceral tailspin. He just needs time to wrap his head around the idea, and the gut-wrenching feeling deep in his core will quiet down. 

He breathes in deeply. “Weren’t you the one who was telling me I should make an effort?”

It takes several seconds to get an answer, and Steve spends them all staring at an immobile suit. Finally, Iron Man replies. “Fine. We’ll try.”

_Fantastic._

“So what was it?” Iron Man asks after a moment.

“What was what?”

“The pressing business that had you barging into my rooms at ass o’clock?”

“Oh. Nothing. Whitmore skewered the new Hammer Rayze in the Times this morning.”

The suit beside him shifts at that, and Steve can sense the atmosphere of the room brightening. “Yessss. Completely deserved but rewarding nevertheless.”

“I'll show you the clipping.”

Shellhead offers the digital equivalent of a scoff. “Or you could just forward me a link. Like a normal person.”

“It's not the same,” Steve insists, their argument a long-standing one. 

“Yes, but think Steve,” Iron Man snaps back. “If you'd embraced the power of the internet, we all could have avoided that little peep show this morning.”

Steve doesn't bother to respond, but he mentally acknowledges that that’s the most compelling reason he's heard yet for learning to deal with those stupid tiny phone keyboards. 

* * *

Despite the complicated array of feelings that have passed through his head throughout the morning, Steve knows he still has to make amends with one more person, no matter how much his stomach churns at the thought. 

Natasha's lab is sort of like the secret lair of Stark Tower. The further underground you go, the higher your security clearance must be, and only the woman herself and Iron Man have access to the most important rooms on the ground floor. Steve assumes this is where the magic happens. All he knows is that Natasha Stark and Iron Man disappear into this room late at night and Iron Man emerges the next day with technical upgrades. 

He finds himself stymied by a pair of frosted glass doors that his key card doesn’t authorize him to enter, and given that the purpose of this little excursion is to apologize, he doubts his usual shield-in-door method of opening doors would advance his cause. He settles for knocking, hoping that he trips some sort of security alarm that will alert Natasha to his presence. Given the amount of time that’s worked in his disfavor, the universe owes him one. 

He’s just about to give himself points for effort and head back up when the doors open and Natasha walks out.

He almost doesn’t recognize her at first. The shorts and black hoodie getup she’s wearing is by far the most informal outfit he’s ever seen her wear. Both are smeared with some sort of grease, as are her face and hands, and her hair is pulled up in a lopsided bun that’s falling from its tie. It’s a far cry from the red carpet couture or press conference outfits he usually sees her in, but this suits her just as well. Dressed like this, it’s easier to believe that she’s the mind behind most of the Avengers’ technology rather than just its admittedly charming mouthpiece.

He dips his head toward her. “Ms. Stark.”

“Captain,” she replies, looking trepidatious. 

“I just wanted to apologize for this morning. If I’d have known — ”

“Forget about it,” she cuts in. “It’s not your fault.”

“I should have knocked.” _God, I wish I’d knocked._

“Bit late for that now,” she replies.

The silence settles between them long enough that it’s reached the awkward stage Steve had been dreading, but it seems rude to leave after such a brief conversation. 

“So,” he starts, “you and Iron Man?”

“Me and Iron Man,” she echoes. Her tone betrays nothing and the room is, if possible, more awkward than before. After a moment, Natasha continues. “Did you need anything else?”

“No. No, that’s all. I just wanted to apologize.”

“Well,” she answers back, in a tone that clearly invites him to leave, “apology accepted.”

He wants so dearly to take that invitation and head back upstairs as fast as the elevator will carry him, and he almost does. Then he curses himself for a coward and turns back around. 

“Actually, there was one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“I know that you and I have never really spent that much time together,” he starts, which is putting it mildly at best. “But Iron Man is my best friend, and I think it’s important that the two of us get to know one another better.”

“Iron Man said you mentioned something like that,” Natasha answers, her voice betraying nothing about her thoughts on the matter.

Steve doesn’t even want to imagine how that conversation went. Then again, how many times have they talked about him without him knowing it? “That must be strange to you.”

“What?” Natasha asks.

“Calling him Iron Man. Instead of his name.”

“Oh.” It’s an oddly flat retort. “Yeah, I don’t mind. Press conferences and stuff,” she mumbles.

Steve can’t help but think that it must be nice to have the option, to hold that name in your mind and be able to whisper it in private moments. “Still, it seems so formal when you know his name.” 

_I should know that name. I deserve to know his name._

“Needs must.” Natasha breaks eye contact and stares at the floor, unwilling to carry the conversation any further, which leaves the threads for him to pick up. 

Shellhead’s always said that his poker face is transparent but he and Natasha haven’t spent nearly as much time together. Maybe he can sell this. He braces himself and speaks. “We usually hang out in the fortieth floor media room on Thursdays. Movies, dinner, that sort of thing. You could come too.”

Natasha crosses arms and shifts her weight back to her hips. After a long pause, she says, “You’re a good friend, Steve. I'm pretty busy, though. I’ve got some things coming up this week that I’m not nearly prepared for. ”

It's the same excuse that Iron Man offered him, and once again Steve feels the urge to take it. But he's come this far. Might as well bite the bullet. “You sure you couldn't stop by? It would mean a lot to me if the three of us could be...friends.” 

“The three of us…” Natasha trails off. “Actually, it might be good for you to have the three of us all together. I mean, good for the three of us. To spend time. All of us together.” Steve doesn’t quite understand the need for the qualification when Natasha concludes, “I'll try to pop in for a minute or two.”

“Great.” He tries to mean it. 

“See you tonight then.” She glances between Steve and the elevator in a clear invitation for him to make his way out, and Steve takes it. 

“Tonight,” he affirms and exits, all the while thinking to himself that while that wasn’t as bad as he expected things to be, he much preferred the world he thought he inhabited before this morning. 

* * *

He’s very much regretting his invitation when later that night Natasha turns up to the media room without Iron Man. To be honest, he’d half expected her to blow off his invitation; never in his wildest dreams did he thinks she’d show up without an intermediary. 

“Iron Man should be here in just a second,” she assures him, apparently sensing his surprise. “He’s just finishing up some last-minute security checks for a meeting we have tomorrow.”

“You have a meeting tomorrow?”

“Yeah, we’re headed up to D.C. for a committee meeting. Just a day trip, though.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Not really,” Natasha answers. “D.C. never is.”

And with that, the pleasantries are out of the way and the conversation stagnates uncomfortably. 

“Right, sooo,” Steve broaches, we’ll just wait for Shellhead to get here and we can get started.”

“Yeah, um, sure. JARVIS,” Natasha asks as she casts her eyes upwards, “how far out is my better half? He should _definitely_ be here by now.”

The familiar voice rings from the ceiling.“I’m so sorry Ms. Stark, but Iron Man has been delayed. He’s asked me to tell you that he won’t be able to make it and you and the Captain should start without him.

Natasha stands up straighter at that. “What? JARVIS, that doesn’t make sense.”

“No, ma’am. That’s what he said.” To Steve’s ear, the animated voice almost sounds...smug? 

“JARVIS, you _clearly_ must have misunderstood. Check again.” Natasha glares at the ceiling as if she could stare a hole through it and force her boyfriend to come flying through. 

“No, he was perfectly clear on the matter,” JARVIS answers blithely. “I can patch you through to his com if you would like to speak with him yourself.”

“No, that’s…fine,” she responds in a tone that is not at all fine. 

“We can reschedule if you want.” Steve is committed to making sure that he gets along with Shellhead’s girlfriend, but he’s not exactly sure if he is at the point where he can do that without an intermediary. 

For a moment she seems to consider it, but she finally says, “It’d be a shame to let the food go to waste.” She looks away from him to glare at the ceiling. “JARVIS, remind me to have _words_ with my significant other when we’re finished. And with you, for the shit you let him get away with.” Steve isn’t exactly sure how you punish an AI, but Natasha’s tone certainly suggests she’s going to be successful about it. And creative. 

“Certainly, ma’am. Have a nice evening.” JARVIS’s voice blips out and somehow leaves the room emptier despite having a physical body.

Steve doesn’t really understand how JARVIS factors into this, but Steve’s not going to get between the woman and her tech. He might, however, spare Shellhead, so he turns to Natasha. 

“Don’t give Iron Man too hard of a time. I’m sure it’s something important.” 

“Uh huh.” She sounds decisively unconvinced. “I get half of that?”

Steve jolts at the sudden turn in the conversation, but he follows her sightline to the pizza on the table. “Oh. Uh, sure.”

He raises an eyebrow at the sheer mass of pizza she slaps on a plate, but she brushes him off. “Relax, Super Stomach. We can always order more.”

“No. I mean, it’ll just be nice not to be the only one in the room eating.” He always feels slightly guilty when he sees his best friend sipping an atrocious smelling smoothie through a straw as he inhales real food. Having some company will be nice. 

“Fair enough. All right, let’s do this.” Natasha grabs the remote and seamlessly navigates to whatever movie is next in his and Iron Man’s digital queue. Steve lets her, used to ceding the television controls to his more tech-savvy friend since Iron Man is an admitted remote hog. He wonders how that shakes out between the two of them. 

One of the best things about movie night is that it's flexible enough to suit all participants. When he and Iron Man had first started this tradition, it was as a coping mechanism for insomnia. They'd both grown into conversation, first commenting on the onscreen events, then going off on related tangents until they'd finally reached the point to where the screen served as background noise rather than the main attraction. He and Natasha aren't nearly at that level of intimacy, and Steve mentally curses his friend for leaving him to mediate this very awkward interaction, but the television soothes the situational awkwardness, at least temporarily. 

They’re twenty minutes into their movie when Natasha breaks the silence. 

“That guy’s sort of an ass in real life.”

“Sorry?” Steve asks.

“The supporting actor? Total dickhead. I’d come across him every once in a while when SI was stationed out in California and I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him for very long. It takes him less than five minutes to mentioned the one Emmy award he was nominated for back in 1998.”

Steve’s never really thought about what it must mean to rub shoulders with the vast majority of people that appear on their television screens. He knows he’s met some of these people at Avengers glad-handing events, but he tries to keep his personal and his private lives separate. Natasha’s been doing this her whole life. It stands to reason that she would 

“Does that happen to you often? Knowing one of the actors?”

“Oh, loads,” she answers. “If it’s not an indie film, I’m almost guaranteed to have attended a benefit with at least some of the cast. And there are entire sitcoms I can’t watch out of an intense loathing for some of the principals.” She takes a swing of one of Iron Man’s habitual protein shakes and rolls forward with this safe line of conversation. “It’s gotten better since I’ve moved to New York. Still, if you live in this city long enough, you’ll eventually get to play one of my favorite games.”

“Which is?”

“What Percentage of My Waitstaff Have Appeared on Law and Order.”

Steve snorts at that. He’s not overly fond of the shows, but given its sheer number of episodes, he can appreciate the number of people they employ. 

“I’m serious!” Natasha continues. Every server in this city dreams of becoming the next Hamilton or Phantom but ends up as Dead Prostitute #4. And don’t even get me started on the recasts.”

“What about them?”

“If you’ve got a good enough memory for faces you can pick the actors the production company hires to play multiple characters. There’s this one actor who they must particularly like because he's played at least six different characters. Like, was no one else available? Could you not throw a rock outside the studio and hit another random actor?”

“If it ain’t broke,” Steve says.

“Point,” Natasha concedes. “Okay, question," she says, drawing her knees up on the sofa and turning toward him. "Out of all the schmoozing you’ve had to do as an Avenger, who were you the most excited to meet?”

“Most of the people I grew up idolizing are dead.”

“Well, that’s unnecessarily depressing.” 

Steve thinks for a moment, and much to his surprise he’s able to come up with an answer. “I got to meet Greer Garson during her victory bonds tour back in the 40s. That was a thrill.” 

“Worth the tights?” Natasha asks coyly.

“Nothing was worth those tights.”

“I found them very fetching,” she answers, humor transparent in her voice.

Eager to get away from the horrors of uniforms past, Steve tries to drag the conversation back on topic. “Hard to imagine you have much time to keep current with tv shows.”

“I don’t,” she says as she waves one hand dismissively. “But sometimes reruns are a comfort. I occasionally put them on in the background when I’m working on the suit.”

And just like that, the elephant’s back in the room. Or rather, Steve qualifies, he’s not in the room where he’s supposed to be, serving as the only point of contact for two people who have very little else in common. 

Steve tries to make the most of it. “He doesn’t try to blast rock music at an insane volume?” he asks. 

“Occasionally, but I don’t mind,” Natasha answers. “Our tastes are surprisingly similar.” There’s a smirk on her lips that hints at an inside joke and Steve bites back a tinge of jealousy. 

“That’s good then,” he assures. "That the two of you have so much in common.”

“Yeah…” She inhales once deeply and then plows forward. “Neither of us liked keeping it a secret,” she blurts, and Steve starts at the sudden conversation. “Us, being...together,” she clarifies. “I... _both_ of us were looking for a way to tell you before what happened happened. He trusts you.”

She’s being remarkably gracious, both about his rather clumsy stumble this morning and about everything in general, and twenty-four hours ago, Steve would have taken her claims at face value. Now he’s not so sure. 

“But you didn’t?” he asks, probing as gently as he can for answers to questions he didn’t even know he should be asking. 

“I do. I’m just —” She struggles to find a word, so he fills it in for her.

“Private,” he supplies, inserting Shellhead’s terminology. 

Her lips twist upward, but there’s no joy in them. “Something like that.” He expects that to be the end of the conversation, brief as it is, but much to his surprise, Natasha plows forward, her voice meticulously picking out each word. “With Iron Man I…I finally had a relationship that meant something to me. I didn’t want to ruin something that gave me…that let me…” she stumbles, “…just be _me_.”

“And telling us,” _telling me,_ his mind supplies, “that would have ruined it?”

“I thought it might,” she answers quietly.

Steve understands the situation all too well, because it’s his reality too, and the thought of that reality being compromised is tearing him up inside. “And is it?” he posits. “Ruined?”

“You tell me.”

Steve doesn’t quite understand what she is she’s looking for since it’s not exactly his place to offer permission or absolution. And if Natasha’s relationship with Shellhead predated his arrival in the twenty-first century then it’s not exactly as if it’s in his power to wreck it.

_He wants to. God, he wants to._

He won’t.

“I…” he starts, then forces himself to meet Natasha’s eyes. “I just want my best friend to be happy.”

_Please don’t hurt him._

“Me too,” she answers, her tone wistful. “But I’m pretty sure that’s not possible without you in his life.” Her eyes bore into him as if she could print the words on his brain with the intensity of her stare. She beaks after a few seconds and extends her hand toward him. “So friends?”

Steve takes it, and her palm is small but calloused in his. “Friends,” he affirms. 

At that moment, the elevator dings and their missing third walks in. Natasha drops his hand and rotates to face her boyfriend.

“There you are!” she exclaims.

“Sorry I was late,” the suit answers. “There were a couple of things that needed to be taken care of.” 

Natasha does not seem impressed. “I’m sure. Well, Steve and I have had a great time without you, and it’s getting late so I’m going to turn in. Why don’t you walk me to the elevator?” It's not a suggestion.

“Of course,” Iron Man affirms and then turns to Steve. “Be back in a minute.” 

Steve’s a bit surprised that Natasha’s darting out of the room so quickly, but a quick glance at the clock shows that they’ve been talking for longer than he thought. 

“Goodnight, Natasha,” he offers. 

“Night, Steve.”

It takes a shorter amount of time than Steve expects for Iron Man to make his way back down to the room, but his speed soothes a petty part of Steve’s soul. 

“Sorry I was late,” his friend says as he enters the room.

“Everything alright? “

“Yeah,” Iron Man assures,” it’s fine. Security checks just took a bit longer than expected.” 

“The two of you are headed to D.C., right?”

“Yeah, Tasha’s testifying before the House Committee on Energy and Commerce tomorrow and congressional security’s always a bitch.”

“Damn.” Natasha had said she was busy, but he didn’t know she meant Congress busy. “We didn’t have to do this tonight,” he insists. 

“It seemed important to you. Besides, Tasha doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to. She probably needed to destress,” he assures. “So how’d it go?”

Steve can’t help but answer honestly. “She’s easier to talk to then I imagined.”

“That’s what you get when you build up something your head. Trust me, she doesn’t bite. Well, unless you ask.”

He speaks before he thinks. “Bites?” 

Iron Man stares at him. “Really? That’s a conversation you really want to have?”

“I just didn’t know…” he stops himself, unsure of how to phrase the question. “Are we talking a Darth Vader situation or can you live without the helmet?”

“You know, usually I’d deflect that question, but your spot-on cultural reference deserves a reward.” He waits a moment before continuing. “I don’t need the helmet.”

“Okay.”

“I’m also,” Iron Man stresses, “not bald. “Underneath all of this is some quality follicular excellence.”

“Good to know.” And it is. _Not bald_ is the first solid piece of information he has about his friend’s appearance sans suit, and it’s a bit pathetic how eager he is for that information. It’s ironic because it really doesn’t matter; given his reliance on the suit, Steve’s always half-expected his friend to be heavily scarred or otherwise disfigured under the mask. That’s never made a difference in who he is. Shellhead is Shellhead and he could be green and purple for all Steve cares, but the not knowing, the absence of any concrete information, chafes. 

_She knows what he looks like._

Iron Man tilts his head to the side. “You know, I bet if I worked at it, I could adapt the voice modulator to sound like James Earl Jones. That would be appropriately badass. I could terrorize our enemies into submission.

He would, just to be contrary. And it would probably happen right in the middle of a debrief, just to piss Fury off. Steve would have to look disapproving while biting back a laugh. “Are you a supervillain in this scenario?” Steve presses. 

“What? No. Think righteous anger. Stern disapproval from an all-powerful armored being with a powerful baritone.”

“As long as you don’t talk your girlfriend into building you a Death Star.” Steve is proud of the way his voice doesn’t trip over a certain loaded word. 

“Well now I have to!” 

“Seriously though…” Steve struggles to find the right wording if such a thing even exists. “Can you…? When you’re together, do you have to wear the armor or…?”

Shellhead’s digitized laughter crystalizes to his extreme mortification. “Or what, Steve?” he chokes out through gasps for far longer than Steve thinks is actually funny. The noises from the suit sound as if the man inside is hyperventilating, and Iron Man even swipes at his faceplate as if he’s wiping away tears. Habit probably. 

He recovers himself and straightens into a posture that Steve has long-since learned from experience means trouble. “We make it work.” He raises one gauntleted hand and drones, “These fingers bring Natasha Stark to orgasm on a semi-regular basis.” 

Steve nearly chokes on his beer. “No need to get graphic!”

“You asked!”

Steve groans and slaps his hands over his eyes. “You are such an ass.”

“At least this ass is getting some.”

And that...that sends his mind to dangerous places. Apart from now knowing that his friend has hair, Steve has very little knowledge of his friend’s features inside of that armor. With so little to work with, it was hard to imagine his faceless, formless friend engaging in such an intimate activity. 

In the absence of any concrete facts, his brain fills in the missing information with what little it did know. He’s seen the armor lift tanks; it would be the work of a moment to lift Natasha, to guide her legs around the armor’s waist and settle gauntleted hands beneath her hips. To lift her high enough to meet an unmasked faced, since apparently, Iron Man didn’t need the helmet all the time. Or would he take the gauntlet off and run his bared fingers up and down her body, the skin-to-skin contact made all the more intimate by prolonged sensory deprivation? 

_She’d feel his hand on her skin. She’d get to see his face._

And, in spite of his personal feelings about her, there’s no denying that Natasha is beautiful. He’s always known that much, even without having it so blatantly confirmed this morning. It’s all too easy to see how someone could be attracted to a woman who looks…like that. And she’d be passionate, he could guess that much. Even someone with only a surface knowledge of her personality knew that she was never still or silent. No, she’d give as good as she got. Besides, he really couldn’t see Shellhead accepting anything less in a partner. He’d want someone who could match him, someone who could push him to the edge just so they could tumble over it together. 

He’s never been so glad Iron Man hasn’t yet developed the technology to read minds. He takes a swig of his drink and tries to pretend that he hasn’t just spaced out in an incredibly inappropriate way. 

“Yeah, well not all of us have gorgeous woman living upstairs.”

Iron Man is uncharacteristically quiet for a moment. Then he says, “That’s the second time you’ve called Natasha gorgeous.”

"What?"

"You said it this morning when you were trying to explain how much you didn't hate her and again just now."

“What about it?”

“Nothing. Just an observation.” 

Well, Steve posits, it was sort of hard not to ‘observe’ after this morning. “I’ll stop if it bothers you.”

“No,” his friend insists. “No, it doesn’t bother me. I’d be a pretty terrible partner if I didn’t agree with you.”

“You’ve never said anything before.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but he must not succeed entirely given Iron Man’s reaction. 

“Listen, Steve,” he says, “this thing with Tasha been going on for a while now.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks. He doesn’t find the confidence as assuring as he assumes his partner means it to be.

“Yeah,” his friend responds. The suit emits a noise that Steve has long-assumed means his friend is taking a deep breath, and Iron Man continues on. “I’m just trying to say that this…secret…has been part of my life for a while now, and the way that I…the whole…Tasha and I have been, well, what we are the entire time you and I have known each other, so really this doesn’t change anything. Our friendship doesn’t have to change.”

If Iron Man meant his disclosure to be comforting, he’s widely missed the mark. The whole time? In the four years they’ve known each other, Iron Man has been seeing the same woman _the entire time_?

“If you say so.”

“Okay, what is your deal?” Iron Man demands.

“No deal,” Steve insists. 

“Yeah, I’m not buying it. You utterly freak out when you found out about Natasha, then you insist on the three of us getting together. The two of you manage to have a perfectly decent time without me and now you’re back to being a downer. What gives?”

Steve momentarily debates prevaricating again, but then decides to go with a redacted version of the truth. “I envy you,” he confesses.

“You _envy_ me?” It’s both an accusation and a question. 

“Yes.”

“You date.” Iron Man insists. “I mean, not successfully, but you’ve definitely dated since we’ve met. I’m not allowed to do the exact same thing?’

“It’s not the same,” Steve insists.

“How?! How is it not the same?”

It all comes bursting out in one sustained rush. “You get to have someone that knows both sides of you, the hero and the human and accepts them both. None of the stuff that we do is going to take Natasha by surprise. She’s a part of it. Hell, she’s behind most of it. So if you’ve found someone doesn’t just tolerate what we do but _understands_ it, who can be with you every step of the way and love you through it…hell, _because_ of it…yeah, Shellhead, I’m envious.”

_You understand. You’ve always understood. But you’ve never been mine and now you belong to someone else and I’m too late and it hurts._

There’s a moment of dead quiet after he finished his little tirade, and Steve fears that he’s tipped his hand. It’s a speech that demands a response but, really, what is there to say? No matter the reply, Steve really doesn’t think he can stick around to hear it. He stands. 

“I think I’m going to turn in for the night.”

“Steve —“

“I’m fine. You shouldn’t keep her waiting. You’ve both got an early day tomorrow.” He rushes out of the room before his friend can call him back again, fearful that if called he wouldn’t be able to stay away.

* * *

He doesn’t feel any better about things the next morning. The previous night’s events run through is mind on an intolerable mental loop, and he does not look better for the replay. Neither Iron Man nor Natasha is responsible for his feelings, and it’s incredibly unfair of him to let his emotions bleed out so recklessly. The next time he sees them, he assures himself, he’ll have more control. 

At least he has until the pair of them get back from D.C. to get his head on straight. He’s nearly managed to get the two of them out of his head when a voice rings from the room’s speakers, dragging the whole sordid situation screaming back to the surface. 

“Captain,” JARVIS says from the ceiling with an uncharacteristic urgency, “there’s something you need to see. Without waiting for his response, JARVIS turns on the suite’s television. 

The scene has been switched onto a cable news channel, where a blonde anchor is speaking solemnly into the camera. 

“...just in. We are getting confirmed reports that billionaire industrialist Natasha Stark has been shot as she exited a planned speech before the House Committee on Energy and Commerce. Capitol officials have identified the gunman as Trent Hendricks, a coal and natural gas activist who has been incredibly vocal both in person and online about his resistance to Ms. Stark’s renewable energy proposal currently before the House. The gunman is now in custody no one else is known to be harmed. 

Ms. Stark's current whereabouts and status are unknown, as moments after shots were fired, she was carried away from the scene by Iron Man, who was with her at the time of the attack but unable to prevent the gunman from taking fire. We have received cell phone footage of the event, but please exercise caution, as this video may be upsetting to some viewers.”

Steve watches in horror as the screen shifts to grainy cell phone footage. Natasha’s heads up a group of black-suited figures walking down a flight of stairs. Iron Man flanks her right, and she’s talking to someone Steve vaguely recognizes as a senator from Nevada. The gunshots sound soft and tinny on the bad recording, but seconds later Natasha gives a grotesque jerk and staggers backward. From then on, it’s chaos. The camera waivers, the filmer obviously ducking for cover, and Natasha and her entourage fall out of the frame. Steve nearly pounds the television, as if venting his frustration on this screen will somehow chastise the other into focus, but the remaining fifteen seconds of footage only manage to capture a few images in which a streak of red wraps his arms around an unresponsive Natasha and takes them both airborne. 

“JARVIS, how long ago was this?!”

“Minutes, sir. Both Iron Man and Ms. Stark are on route to the tower.”

“The tower? JARVIS, she needs a hospital!”

“Emergency protocols insist that in the event of her injury, Ms. Stark be taken to a secure medical facility. I have the appropriate personnel en route to the tower as we speak.

Steve draws up. “That…that makes no sense!” He thinks frantically of the two hundred miles between D.C. and New York City and what that distance could mean to a body in trauma. Getting Natasha back to the city would take time, time she most certainly couldn’t spare. Surely it would make more sense to get her to a local hospital as quickly as possible. 

“I have my orders, Captain.” There’s an infinitesimal pause before the AI continues on. “Please, sir. She has her reasons.”

It’s the _please_ that does it. To his memory, it’s the first time he’s ever heard the tower’s AI ask for something. “How much longer until they get here?” he demands. 

“Approximately fifteen minutes,” JARVIS answers.

“I’ll meet them on the landing pad,” Steve answers as he sprints to the stairwell, not trusting the elevators to get him there faster. With any luck, he can be waiting for them when they land. 

“Captain,” JARVIS starts and awkwardly pauses for a moment “forgive her. She didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” 

Later, Steve will look back on this remark as the moment he really should have connected the dots. At the moment, however, his only concern is making sure his best friend and the woman that friend loves are able to survive this. It leaves him dreadfully unprepared for what comes next. 

* * *

As expected, he makes it to the landing pad first, but this consequently means he has nothing to do but wait and pace. The feeling is intolerable and only serves to rack up his inner tension. If there was a fight he could run to or an assailant he could track down, he would do it in a heartbeat, but in this, he’s essentially useless. It’s not a feeling he particularly enjoys.

He stops pacing when he sees a glimpse of red flying in from the southwest, and his eyes fixate on the fast-moving blur. Something is off, but it’s only when the suit draws nearer to the pad that Steve realizes what’s wrong; there’s only one person flying toward the tower.

Steve is speaking as soon as the doors open. “Iron Man! What happened? Where’s Natasha?” Steve cannot think of a single reason aside from the worst that Iron Man would have returned to the tower without Natasha, and the thought makes his blood run cold. 

His friend’s uncharacteristic silence scares him. Steve takes a step forward, unsure of what he’ll do if his friend remains unresponsive when the suit staggers forward and emits a sound Steve’s never heard before. A slight whirring sound echoes in the room, the suit pulls apart, and, to Steve’s intense shock, Natasha herself steps out of the familiar red and gold armor.

He’s never known anyone else to borrow the armor before, but if anyone else could pilot the suit, it would be her. Steve spares a momentary concern for Shellhead and how vulnerable he must be somewhere without his suit, but he quickly shoves that thought aside to tend to the woman stumbling toward him. He doubts Iron Man would have passed on the armor unless it was absolutely necessary, so Steve immediately jumps into his analytical combat mode. 

Natasha’s lost her blazer somewhere between the press conference and the tower, and Steve can see an alarming smear of red spreading low on her left side. “Where were you hit?” he asks in a voice that he hopes masks his internal panic. He couches down beside her and starts to lift the hem of her shirt. At the level of the bloodstain on her torso, she could be looking at a punctured lung or intestines. 

“Steve, wait —” Natasha protests, her voice slurred. 

“Did they hit anything major?” he continues. “We need to make sure that you don’t have…” His voice trails off as he lifts the shirt past her ribcage. 

The good news is, she’s not in any immediate danger. The bullet’s buried in her side and she’s losing blood, but it looks worse than it is. And that’s not the main thing that’s drawing his attention. That would be the very familiar piece of machinery embedded in the middle of her sternum. 

“Surprise?” Her voice is emotional, but he can’t exactly pinpoint the blend of feelings contained in that one word. 

“I don’t understand…”

She smiles, but there’s more pain than pleasure in the movement. “You’re smart, Winghead. I’m sure you can figure it out.”

It’s been staring him in the face the entire time. Iron Man’s not here guarding the woman he’s bound to protect. Natasha Stark preferred not to mingle with the team she funded. Iron Man and Natasha had been "together" forever, but Steve’s never suspected his friend of a being in a relationship. 

And Natasha Antonia Stark has Iron Man’s arc reactor embedded in the center of her chest. 

“You’re Iron Man,” he breathes. It’s both a question and an answer. 

She laughs lightly, but she’s not meeting his eyes. “Give the man a gold star. Or a white one. Consistency in color schemes is important,” she says faintly as she taps the center of his chest, where a white star has always appeared on every uniform she’s designed. And every suit she’s ever fought alongside. 

“What? How?” He knows he’s babbling, but his brain refuses to make sense at the moment. 

“Long story. Not one I’m really up for telling right now.” 

She winces and casts her eyes down toward where their hands rest at her bloodied waist. The light from the arc reactor makes her blood look black on their skins.

_Shit._

“JARVIS, we need medical now!”

The AI’s voice sounds out of the room’s speakers, and underlying urgency sharpening his already crisp British vowels. “The doctors are on their way, Captain. Please proceed to the elevators.”

Natasha makes a soft noise of affirmation. “Sounds great,” she says weakly, but she doesn’t move, leaving Steve to keep her upright. Not willing to waste any more time, he wraps one arm underneath her legs and lifts, moving towards the elevator bay as fast as his speed will let him, hoping for both their sakes that he’s fast enough. 

* * *

She loses consciousness in the elevator, but an army of doctors descend on them mere minutes after they hit the medical floor. That had been yet another shock, learning that Natasha had an entire team of New York’s best surgeons on retainer, hemmed in by NDAs and generous amounts of hush money. He… _she’d…_ told so many people. 

_Just not you._

_Not important right now. She’s okay she’s alive she’s breathing._

It’s probably the shock that makes Steve lose all concept of time because it seems like both a moment and an eternity when a woman in scrubs comes out of the operating theatre and says that she’s stable and resting quietly. Another inch to the right and the bullet would have punctured a lung, she says. Ms. Stark was incredibly lucky.

None of this feels like luck to Steve.

The doctor tells him that he can go into her room if he likes, and despite all that’s happened between them, Steve can’t not go. 

She looks so _small,_ dwarfed by her hospital gown and the large IV stand next to the bed. Her eyes are closed when he enters a room and for a moment he thinks she’s sleeping. Then she mutters a single word under her breath. 

“Hey.”

He takes that as permission to come closer and moves next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Not dead. That’s always a plus.” She opens her eyes; her pupils are dilated but her gaze is direct. “What’d the doctors say?”

“They were able to extract the bullet fairly cleanly. Nothing vital was hit, so you make a full recovery with time and rest.”

Tasha grunts in acknowledgment. “And the gunman?”

“Picked up after you left the scene.”

Natasha sits up a little bit against her cushions "Serves them right. Honestly, this whole thing is beyond ridiculous. The one time I actually get shot, and it happens in street clothes. At a _press conference_. I’ll never live it down."

_It’s not funny. None of this is funny. You could have died._

When he doesn’t join in on the ribbing, she tones down the sarcasm. “Soooo…I owe you an explanation.”

“I’d like one.” It’s an understatement. 

“I…” she begins only to stop, shifting her jaw in consternation. After a few moments, she exhales sharply. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

Steve hates to deny the obvious, but he needs to hear her say it. “You’re him? He’s...This whole time, it’s been you?” 

“Yeah, Steve. It’s always been me.”

“But that’s…No. No! I’ve seen the two of you together. Just last night!” 

Natasha shakes her head. “JARVIS pilots the suit remotely when Iron Man and Natasha Stark need to be in the same place at the same time. Saved my ass a few times too. He wasn’t _supposed_ to be late last night, but he sometimes has a mind of his own. But everything else? That’s me.”

“But why?” he asks.

She tries to sit up against her pillows only to wince and settle back down. She sighs, stares up at the ceiling and begins. “At first…plausible deniability. In the beginning I was still figuring this whole thing out, and my public reputation was a mass. Casual sexism created enough of a distance between Natasha Stark and Iron Man for the general public, but then the team came along. You guys are smart. You would have figured it out. I had to make a choice and, well,” she says ruefully, “I gave you my better half.”

Steve’s brow furrows at that. “That’s…” _Wrong. Sad. Unnecessarily self-deprecating._ “…needlessly complicated.”

Tasha snorts. “Story of my life. That morning you found me…I’d wrapped up things in California earlier than usual and just wanted to come home. It was late when I got back, I was tired, and I crashed on the wrong floor.” She shrugs and offers up a humorless smile. “Just think, if I wasn’t a stomach sleeper, this all could have been over a lot sooner.” 

A vision of Natasha lying on her stomach flashes behind his eyes and Steve’s eyes instinctually drops down to where the faint light of the arc reactor shines through the material of her medical gown. “Does it hurt?”

“Every waking second.” Steve wishes she was being sarcastic, but the tone of her voice has him thinking that she’s being deadly sincere.

Tasha continues on, seemingly oblivious to the dots that are connecting in Steve’s head, the connections he’s drawing between his best friend and their benefactor, and the onslaught of conclusions that ripple through his brain. “Still can’t quite get away with a v-neck in public, but I flashed a lifetime’s worth of cleavage in my twenties anyway. Being able to shoot plasma blasts from my hands is a worthy trade-off.”

_She sounds so much like Iron Man that it hurts._

“Doesn't seem like you're all that gung ho about it though.” Her voice drops any pretense of humor and she stares straight into his eyes. Steve finds it hard to meet them.

“It's a lot to take in.”

“Can you? Take it in?”

And honestly, how does he answer that question? It's not exactly as if he has a choice. At the end of the day, no matter how hard he attempts to bury his hand in the sand, Natasha will still be Iron Man. Always has been, apparently. But that's obviously not the question she's asking. She’s asking him to merge two identities that he's held very distinctly from one another for some time now and accept the sum of their parts, to treat Natasha Stark as his brother in arms and to acknowledge Iron Man as the woman who’s founded and funded them, who he really didn't care for all that much, but has come to realize he truly didn’t know at all.

The thing that Steve can recognize, even at this early stage of his epiphany, is that the aggregate is worth more than its discrete parts. Iron Man and Natasha are (were?) both complex, complete individuals in their own right. But the fact that they’re one and the same? How many sacrifices must she have made to maintain them both? So when Natasha asks if he can handle it, his only question is _How has she?_

He doesn't say any of this out loud, preferring instead to keep his emotions close to his chest until he has time to process them. “I'll get there," he offers instead.

Natasha leans back and closes her eyes. “That's not exactly comforting, Steve.”

“Don't worry about that right now. You focus on resting up and healing. We’ll...get through this."

There's no precedent for this situation. If he — she — were in the armor, he'd clasp her on the shoulder, but that very familiar gesture of comfort seems almost unbearably intimate as he looks down on a closed-eyed Natasha. And flesh is so much warmer than iron.

* * *

So he runs.

He’s not proud of himself and he knows that it’s the coward’s way out, but he knows himself well enough to know that his impulsive decisions are...not always the smartest choices, and he can't afford to screw up what is undoubtedly his most important relationship. Late that night he takes an outrageously expensive taxi ride to Brooklyn and hopes that the physical boundary of the East River will provide the illusion of mental distance. 

It doesn’t. 

He lets himself into a dark apartment that he hasn’t stepped foot inside in months and certainly hasn’t lived in for years. A thin layer of dust coats his meager furnishings, and the air has that thick, slightly-rancid smell of a place that no one has recently occupied. It’s fine, though. He’s not here for the ambiance. He needs to think, to babble to himself like a crazy person and then stare at a wall for hours without anyone judging him. And he doesn't know if he can do that with her lying wounded in a bed upstairs. 

If finding Natasha in Iron Man’s bed had thrown him for a loop, this latest development has sent him into a tailspin, and at this point, his brain is physically incapable of aligning with true north. Still, this most recent discovery of Natasha’s double life has inspired a different flavor of panic. This is the sharp, bitter pang of shock, and it will pass in time. What’s disturbing him most is the softer feeling of relief that’s settled in after the rush of excitement has faded. 

When he’d first concluded that Natasha and Iron Man were partners, his gut reaction was _No._ In the heat of his very visceral response, he couldn’t exactly understand why the two of them shouldn’t be together, but the very thought of it had pinched a place deep inside of him that he hadn’t even known to protect. He hadn’t really been able to label his feelings until he’d caught Natasha stumbling out of a suit with an arc reactor blazing in her chest. Because when he’d finally learned that Natasha and Iron Man were not partners in the traditional sense of the word and were in fact one and the same person, his instinctual reaction this time around was _I’m not too late._

_I’m not too late. I didn’t lose my best friend to someone else. If he — she — THEY belong with anyone, they belong with me. And I belong with them. If they’ll have me._

It’s telling because these thoughts should not be the first thing on his mind. Iron Man is a woman. And injured. And Natasha fucking Stark. But his traitor brain has conveniently bypassed all of these more pressing concerns and zeroed in on the more intimate ones. Because if he’s being honest with himself, that's what this entire thing has always been about. From the moment he found Natasha asleep in his best friend’s bed, his unconscious has forcefully reacted against the idea of that friend being with anyone else. Because if anyone belonged there, it should be him.

This could all be for nothing. Despite his brain’s most recent discoveries, there is absolutely nothing to suggest that Tasha feels the same way about him or might even grow to think of him in a romantic light. But with all that’s happened, their relationship is bound to change. It can’t not change. But maybe he can help shape the final product into something that’s more fulfilling for both of them. At this point he has to try, because he doubts the universe is going to provide him with another test run. 

Now he just has to resolve on the where the when and the how, but that’s quite a bit more difficult than it sounds. Putting that plan into action is going to be difficult at best and disastrous at worst. 

He spends a restless night trying to come up with potential lines of attack, but he’s no closer the following morning when a sharp rap sounds on his door and startles him out of his musings. He prays for it to be anyone else: a sales rep, a nosy neighbor, takeout delivered to the wrong house. But the universe is not that kind, and when he peers through the peephole, he’s greeted by the very face that, despite his best efforts, has never managed to clear his mind's eye.

Natasha stands outside his dingy Brooklyn apartment as if she has every right to be there. Her eyes are masked by her trademark dark glasses, but her furrowed brows and tightened jaw indicate that she knows exactly where he is and plans to talk to him if she has to break down the door herself. 

So now. They’re going to do this now. 

He steels himself and opens the door as she’s finishing her second round of knocks. Her hand is still raised, and she sways a little bit as she fails to meet the expected resistance. Steve frowns slightly, noting the bags under her eyes and the unusual power of her skin, uncomfortably aware of the fact that the woman was shot less than yesterday. “Should you be out of bed?” he asks, brows furrowed. 

“Nope.”

Steve draws up at that. He hadn’t exactly expected her to just go and admit it, but now that she has, he’s sort of run out of steam. 

She’s primed and ready. “You gonna make me stand out here in the hall?”

He doesn’t really want to let her in because if he lets her inside they will talk, and fix they talk then things have the potential to go so wrong. Four years of friendship rest on the turn of a hinge; it might fall apart if he lets her in, but it’ll definitely collapse if he shuts the door in her face, so he reluctantly steps back and waves his hand. “Come in.”

Tasha brushes past him and into the unit. Despite the fact that he knows she’s injured, she gives no sign of it, her gate as steady as if she were conducting a strategy meeting or walking down a red carpet. 

_How often has she done this? Iron Man has been hit so many times._

She walks into the center of the room bold as anything and immediately begins surveying the room through her tinted glasses. “So, this place is still as pathetic as I remember it. Hasn’t changed much in the, what…two years since I’ve set foot in this place. Oh, right, my bad. I’d forgotten. It must be because you don’t actually live here.” 

“I own the unit.” It tastes like an excuse as it leaves his mouth, and she’s quick to call him on it. 

“Yes, Steve, believe it or not, I understand the concept of owning multiple properties. Freakishly well, actually. What I don’t understand is why you’d choose to run to this little hole-in-the-wall when you have 10,000 square feet of space tailored to meet your super-soldiered needs smack dab in the middle of one of the most expensive and fascinating cities in the world!” She crosses her arms and her tone goes defensive. “You never seemed to have a problem with it before.”

“I…” he stumbles, “I just wanted to give you space.” 

“Did I ask for space? And since when the hell did giving me space require leaving the borough?”

“Natasha — “ Her first name still feels wrong in his mouth. He’s mentally called her “Ms. Stark” for so long that the shape of her given name feels odd in his mouth. 

_But he knows it now._ _He knows his name. Her name._

Natasha presses on. “Are we divvying up the city now? Mom gets Manhattan, Dad gets Brooklyn, and the kids get ferried across the East River on weekends and every other extraterrestrial invasion? Cause I have to say, Steve, Brooklyn takeout sucks, and feeding everybody costs an arm and a leg.”

“Natasha — ” He tries again, but she’s on a roll.

“Not to mention the sheer amount of property damage our little group can generate on any given day. I doubt your neighbors are going to appreciate the occasional hammer crashing through their walls, and I give it a week before the noise complaints get you evicted.”

“Are you going to let me talk?”

“Do you have something to say?!” she rejoins, her voice sharp.

No, not really. He just really didn’t want to hear another word about his theoretical leaving, because as confused as he is, the thought of staying away permanently, from the team and his life and _her_ has never crossed his mind. With the lack of anything of substance to say, he blurts out the first thing that comes to his head. “Could you please sit down? You’ll pull your stitches.”

The abrupt tangent takes some of the wind out of her sails, and she plops down against his very dusty couch. She clenches her jaw for a moment and then speaks softly. “Come home.”

“I will,” he answers. Not coming back was never really on his mind. “I just need time to come to grips with things.”

“What’s there to come to grips with?” At his incredulously raised eyebrow, Natasha starts qualifying. “I mean, yes, I admit that all this is a bit of a shock and I shouldn’t have,” she stumbles, the word large in her mouth, “lied. But when you really think about it, it’s more a sin of omission than anything else. I’m still me,” she presses. “The essentials haven’t really changed.”

It’s the same shpiel that she gave him before, back when he still thought she was two discrete people. His response is still the same. Things _have_ changed, at least on his end. For better or worse, he’s realized a few things about himself, and there’s no putting the smoke back in the box now. He has no idea how to explain any of this. 

“All of this is so strange for me,” he starts in what he personally considers a drastic understatement. “Iron Man was my best friend.” It’s an admittedly horrible beginning, if only for the way that she blanches.

“Was?” Natasha answers, her voice small. 

“Is!” Steve insists. “I mean…that guy doesn’t really exist. You do.”

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“What? No! Natasha, I’m not disappointed.” 

_Confused and uncertain but never disappointed._

“What exactly is the problem then, Steve? Cause you get along with Nat just fine, so don’t tell me you have some weird sexist hangup, and I’ve _more_ than pulled my weight so — ”

“I was jealous,” he blurts, wanting to stop her before she can voice any more self-doubt.

“Jealous,” she repeats flatly. 

“Yes,” he admits, forcing himself to look her in the eyes. 

Her lips curve in several false starts as if she’s battling back a whole range of responses and can’t resolve on a single response and instead have tried to shape all of them at once. Strangely enough, Steve’s seen video coverage that captures a reaction very similar to this one, but on that occasion, Natasha had lit into a reporter who’d spoken disparagingly of Bruce. The fact that that vitriol might be directed at him sends a chill down his spine, which is confirmed when Natasha inhales deeply and starts speaking in a deathly low voice. 

“I'm self-aware enough,” she begins, “to admit that I’m far from a pleasant person when I'm showboating in public. That woman is a deliberately obnoxious persona. The few times that we've interacted when I haven't been wearing the suit, you get out of my presence as soon has possible. Not to mention the fact that I actually know what you look like when you're happy. So whatever this is that you're trying to pull, this secret torch deal? Complete and utter bull shit!”

She’s nearly screaming by the end, and he feels compelled to match her tone. “I wasn’t jealous of Iron Man! I was jealous of you. Natasha you." 

Her eyes widen at that and her lips part, but nothing comes out. 

“She had _you_ you. The person inside the armor.” Now that the words are out, he just can’t stop them from coming. “She had the sarcastic jackass with low impulse control who always has my back. I was jealous,” he stresses, “because Natasha Stark claimed my best friend and the one person I’m pretty sure is essential to my happiness. But I didn’t realize how essential that friend was to me until I thought he belonged to someone else and I didn’t like it.” 

_Because he belongs with me. And I belong with him, with you. If you’ll take me. If you could want me too._

It’s as if the air has been sucked out of the room. They're both breathing hard, and he can see the elevated rise and fall of Natasha's chest. He’s not used to this. For so long he’s been forced to guess at what’s going on behind his friend’s faceplate, and over the years he’s come to make the most of a shoulder raise or the tilt of a head. But this…this is an embarrassment of riches. Natasha’s face has always been expressive, but he’s never had a reason to watch it so closely before. There’s reason enough now. 

Her eyebrows twitch, and the left one rests slightly lower on her face. Her lips part as if she wants to say something, only to bite back the words when she decides to remain silent. He wants to internalize those expressions, to spend so much time absorbing that face that he knows in an instant what each twitch and furrow and blink entails. They’ve lost so much time already; those eyes have been shining like that this entire time they’ve known each other, but they’ve been shuttered away behind red and gold. If he’d been allowed to see underneath the mask, he’d know exactly how to read that expressive face and if the moisture glistening on Natasha’s lashes bodes well or ill for him. 

It’s okay. They still have time to figure things out, if he hasn’t completely blown everything. 

Meanwhile, Natasha seems to have all of the steam sucked out of her. “Oh,” she answers and her face finally goes still.

“Oh? That’s all you have to say?”

“So not sexist bullshit then.”

“No,” he answers. 

She struggles with that for a moment, but she rebounds quickly enough. “So what? You’ve been pining after some guy in a suit? Tough luck, Steve. You’re just gonna have to suck it up and suffer through it like everyone else does.” 

She sounds sadly resigned, as if the suffering she mentioned is an inevitable consequence of existence, but Steve is more focused on the last bit of her statement. “Like everyone else?” he asks.

“What?” Natasha answers, her voice still raised.

“You said I’d have to suck it up and bear it because pining after a guy in a suit is tough luck,” he repeats. She doesn’t even both to deny it, so he presses his luck another inch. “I wear a suit.”

“Brilliant deduction, genius,” she snaps wetly. 

Admittedly, it wasn’t his best line. But so long as the content comes across clearly, he’ll eventually forgive himself for it. “You don't have to you know. Pine.”

“Oh, believe me I've tried to stop it,” she spits. “Not all of us can have such a tight leash on their feelings.”

“I don't want you to stop. Well I do, just…” _Christ, he’s terrible at this._ “I've been pining a bit myself this week. Didn't really enjoy it all that much. But I'd you and I are on the same page, it seems like we can agree to just...stop doing that.”

“What the hell are you trying to say Steve?” she asks, voice angry but eyes bright. 

"I want…you. Us. Together. If you do too."

_Because you're here and you’re both of them and by some miracle you might just want me too._

“Steve…” She struggles for a moment, but then her voice trails away. Steve waits for something, anything, that will clue him into what’s going on in her head and let him know if the friendship he’s cultivated for so long is about to plummet off a precipice or shift into something more profound. 

When she charges toward him, he honestly doesn’t know what to expect. It almost seems as if she’s going to attack him, but he honestly doesn’t know what level of harm she could inflict outside the suit. He throws up his arms to shield his face, if necessary, but she stops a few inches in front of him. Her hands keep going though, past his face and around his neck and — 

_She’s taller in the suit_. 

It’s a bit stupid that this is the thought goes through his head the first time Tasha kisses him, but he’s spent the past couple of hours mentally hammering into his brain that Shellhead and Stark are one and the same. He’d just about finished mentally placing Natasha’s form inside familiar red boots, so it’s somewhat of a shock that he has to lean down to kiss her. The suit must have lifts, which he definitely has to tease her about later.

Then it hits him. 

_Holy shit, Natasha is kissing him._

Her lips taste faintly salty from the tears that escaped during the last bits of their conversation, and he can still smell a hint of antiseptic on her skin. Their kiss is desperate and it’s rough and it takes him a few seconds to get into it but god it’s exactly what he’d never know to ask for but now can’t imagine existing without. 

_Iron Man is kissing him._

Technically not a man, given the shape of the woman pressed against him, but it’s definitely Iron Man. The person who’s fought alongside him for years. Who co-leads their team, who gave him a home, who binges shitty television shows and cracks inappropriate one-liners in the middle of debriefings. The person who has his heart and, if the way they are kissing him is any indication, feels the same way. 

He snakes one hand around Natasha’s waist, not willing to spend one more second any farther apart than he has to, but the moment he draws her in, the soft moans she’d been issuing against his lips break off into a cry of pain. He backs away as quickly as his reflexes will allow, because _she was shot yesterday_ , and reopened bullet holes are the last thing the moment calls for. 

“I’m so sorry!”

“Not about that kiss, I hope.” Natasha seems less concerned with the possibility of injury than Steve is, and she keeps her hands locked around his neck. “It’s just a flesh wound. I’ll survive, but we probably should hold off on the hot and heavy stuff for a little while.”

“Probably for the best.” His head definitely acknowledges that this is for the best; other parts are not exactly in agreement. His head wins by a disturbingly narrow margin.

At least Natasha seems to be on the same page. “Just temporarily though,” she insists, “not a complete stop. More of a pause really.” She stares at his lips as she says it and it is infinitely distracting. 

“I’m good at waiting,” he assures her, but her answering look is insultingly skeptical. 

“Please. As if you have any impulse control.”

She knows him far too well, but the flip side of that is he knows her too. “Hypocrite.”

“Point.” She steps back, and his neck feels colder without her hands there. “The team has to come first. We can’t let this,” she says, gesturing between them, “tear everything apart.”

“Absolutely. But to be honest,” Steve answers, “I don’t think it’s gonna tear us apart.” The opposite, if anything. “We spend most of our time together anyway.”

She smiles and the movement transforms her face. He wonders just how many smiles that he’s been an unknowing witness to, how many grins and smirks and laughs have been hidden behind a faceplate. Dozens? Hundreds? It doesn’t matter. He just knows he wants to see that smile again and, with luck and effort, inspire a few. 

Her answer indicates that she’s at least somewhat in agreement. “Want to spend some more?” she asks, as if the question even requires a response. 

“Always.”

She extends one hand. “Let’s go home then.”

“Home.” He takes her hand, and her bared palm is so, so warm. 

* * *

_One Year Later:_

He’d set the phone to vibrate to that it wouldn’t wake her up. Turns out, he didn’t really need it — he was too wired to sleep anyway — but the soft buzzing noise was a nice prompt to get him moving, as much as he doesn’t want to go. 

Steve tries to move his arm as quietly as possible, but Tasha’s neck is lodged pretty firmly on his bicep. Her face twitches as his arm clears her temple, and his kisses it softly. 

“I have to leave,” he whispers.

“Noooooo,” Tasha croons Her voice is sleep-heavy as her arms reach towards him. “Warmth.”

“It’s almost midnight,” Steve insists, but he remains motionless for another thirty seconds. Then he tries again. “Sweetheart, I really have to go,” he insists. 

“You really don’t.”

“It’s bad luck.”

“It’s a silly superstition.”

“Blame the Irish in me.” He kisses her cheek again and backs up. “See you in about ten hours.”

“You’d better,” she sits up, flipping up a small light on the bedside table. This is exactly the outcome Steve had tried to avoid because he knows that Tasha will take forever to get back to sleep. She’ll be up for a bit now, most likely fiddling with a tablet, and he won’t be there to cajole her into putting it away. Still, he doesn’t regret staying with her until the last possible second. 

“Go on then,” she urges. “See you in a bit. I’ll be the one in front wearing a familiar little red and gold number.”

He does pause at that. “Really?” That’s news to him, but he’s not exactly against the idea. 

“Babe, I’m ineligible to wear white based on tonight’s activities alone,” she drawls. “Besides, I look good in red. You like me in red.”

_Damn straight._

And, oh, that look and her eyes means she knows exactly what he’s thinking and what she’s _doing_. But it’s four minutes until twelve and they really don’t have time if he wants to clear the room by midnight. He’ll get his vengeance tomorrow, though. 

Tasha looks remarkably smug lounging against the pillows. “Anyway, it’s only fitting that a certain suit makes an appearance. You and that armor have chemistry, and we’ve both been pretty much married to it for five years anyway. Might as well formalize the relationship.”

“Hmmm.” His fiancee makes such great points. Well, at least sometimes. At least eighty-five percent of the time. As for the rest, he’s there to add his two cents worth. Together they make one hell of a team. They always have, he supposes, but together they’re enough to keep SHIELD personal perpetually oscillating between exasperation at their bickering and awe at their competence. It just _works_. 

“Is the suit coming on the honeymoon?”

Tasha gives one of her faux scandalized gasps. “Captain Rogers! My suit is a piece of highly-specialized technical equipment. It is not,” she smirks, “your personal Hitachi.”

“Shameless hussy.”

“You’re marrying this shameless hussy.” 

“Mmm hmm,” he intones. Internally, he can’t help but preen. _I’m marrying her!_ “Which is why I have to leave before we hit midnight. The way our lives work, I’m not gonna risk fate.”

She draws him to her by the collar of his shirt for one last kiss, and then she pushes him up. “All right, fine. Out! Gotta try for those last bits of beauty sleep before the cameras start rolling, and I can’t guarantee that I won’t ravish you if you keep standing there.”

He has no idea how that’s supposed to incentivize him to leave. He must stand there looking at her long enough that Tasha gets suspicious because she raises her head slightly from the pillow to meet his eyes. “You’re cutting it pretty close to midnight for someone who insisted on this whole shebang. Problems?”

Just the opposite, actually. In fact, everything is so suspiciously perfect that he really doesn’t want to leave, just in case he wakes up and discovers this was all some drug-induced dream or a Hydra plot crafted to lower his defenses. 

Their relationship isn’t flawless by any means; it never has been and transitioning into a more traditional partnership hasn’t magically fixed that. They’re both still headstrong and argumentative, and Steve admittedly gets a lot more emotional now that he can physically see the damage each fight takes on the person inside the suit. Still, Iron Man is who Natasha is in her core, and trying to alter that would be to destroy the person he fell in love with. 

He glances back at the woman that fate and effort have allowed him to love and thanks the stars that despite the near impossibility of their respective lives, they managed to make this work. 

“No. I just really like this view.”

“Good thing you’re putting a ring on it then.” She stretches for a moment before wrapping her arms around her pillow, and just for a moment Steve can see the tell-tale flash of bluish-white shining from her chest. 

He backs out of the room, keeping his eyes on her until the last possible second. It's a far cry from the similarly-staged scenario that they'd found themselves in a year ago, him playing Psyche to her Eros, when his main objective was to clear the room as soon as possible, lest his whole world come tumbling down. Now it takes all the willpower he has to leave. He does though, secure in the knowledge that the departure is only a temporary one. 

_Still_ , he thinks to himself, _the next ten hours cannot pass quickly enough._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you know their reveal was as dramatic as possible.

They’ve been together about four months when Steve asks her.

“Have you ever considered telling people?”

Tasha looks up from the pint of rocky road that she’s devouring with particular gusto and cocks her head. “Telling people what?”

“About Iron Man and you.”

“You mean about the torrid love affair I’m having with my bodyguard?” Tasha questions. “I don’t know, Steve. The _Post_ seems to have a pretty good handle on things already.”

“I mean the fact that he’s you.”

“I know what you meant,” Tasha answers, jumping on his correction. 

“So have you thought about it?” he prompts again, not wanting to push but eager to hear her response nevertheless.

Tasha takes a moment and then replies. “I mean, yeah. I’ve always figured I’m on borrowed time anyway. There are more people are in on the secret than I’m really comfortable with. I had to bribe a bar full of people when one of my surgeons got too drunk on St. Patrick’s Day two years ago, and it’s only a matter of time until some fuckwad magics my armor off mid-battle or something equally outrageous.”

“So what’s stopping you?”

“The inevitable drama. Our privacy’s shit as it is, and you know the internet is going to have a field day when they find out.”

Steve mentally winces as he acknowledges the accuracy of her findings. He’d lasted three days with an Avengers-related google alert set up on his phone before he’d caved, and by caved he means chucked his phone at the wall. For his mind, the world is far too interested in their lives. The reputable presses are bad enough by the tabloids are insufferable. 

“You could just stay off the internet,” he starts, but the flat stare Tasha answers him with tells him very frankly that was Not An Option. 

“Anyway,” Tasha presses on, “in addition to the whole _Iron Man is a woman_ thing, there’s the additional _Iron Man is Natasha Stark_ issue. My rep’s improved over time, but not that much.” Steve loathes resigned acceptance in her voice there at the end.

“If people don’t appreciate who you are and what you’ve done they can take a long walk off a short pier.” And if they were resistant to that idea, Steve would kindly escort them to said pier and help them over the side.

Tasha leans over and cuts his thoughts off with a quick kiss. “I love you, babe, but you can’t fix everything.”

Steve hums noncommittally. “Maybe it’s best to get out in front of things,” he says elusively, and the tone of his voice must catch Tasha’s attention. 

“Maybe,” she answers. “What brought this on?”

He takes a large mental breath, desparately hoping this comes out the way he means it to. “You know I love what we have, right? I just wish that we didn’t have to hide all the time. I want to do this,” he says, raising their joined hands, “whenever we feel like it.”

“The press is not going to take that well. Captain America with the Playgirl of Manhattan.”

“Since when do I care what they think?” Steve demands.

“You should,” Tasha answers, and the wobble in her voice scrapes something in his chest. 

He reaches out to take her face in his hands. “Hey. Forget about them. They aren’t important. This, _us_ , this is what’s important. I love you, and I’m good with whatever version of us we get to have.”

They let the moment rest between them for a moment, and then Tasha smiles ruefully. “Well, who wouldn’t want a piece of this?” She gestures down her outstretched legs with her ice cream spoon, and Steve has never loved her more. He’s gonna marry the hell out of that woman. 

He thinks the drama is over for the night until Tasha asks the question that rocks his world. 

“So you’re not worried about what name’s going to go on the marriage certificate?”

“What?! No, I…” Shock is making him clumsy. How did she know?! He’d been so careful, paying for the ring in cash so that it wouldn’t show up on any bank statements. And he hadn’t told _anyone_.

“Please,” Tasha cuts in. “That box has been making a bulge in your pocket for the last three weeks. I figure I’d put you out of your misery.”

He gulps. He knows it's fast. They’ve only officially been together for a few months, but they feel right in every part of his mind, heart, and soul. And it’s not new, not really. They’ve known each other for so long, been essential to each other for so many years, that their relationship seems to some degree inevitable. 

That is, if he hasn’t screwed it all up.

“Tasha, I —”

“Yes,” she answers.

“Yes?” He doesn’t dare to breathe, lest she correct him. 

She doesn’t. Instead, she cradles his cheek in her hand. “I don’t want to take away your moment, cause I know you’ve probably been angsting over your proposal. But when you ask me, my answer will be yes.”

Steve can’t think of a thing to say. He’s been stymied for the past three weeks, waiting for the stars to align andthe right words to manifest in his head. Ironically, even though the moment has passed, he still finds himself speechless. 

Still, even if he doesn’t know what to say, he does know what to _do_ in this situation. With the utmost awkwardness, he slides off the couch and fumbles for the ring box, only to be stopped by Tasha. 

“Not _now_ , dummy! Where’s the romance? The drama? The heartfelt declaration of undying love? Don’t make me orchestrate my own proposal.”

“Do I get a hint?” he asks. 

Tasha grins. “There’s always the classics. Ring in a champagne glass. Middle of Times Square.” She smirks before continuing. “Jumbotron at a Yankees game.”

“If you think I’m proposing at a Yankees game, we clearly don’t know each other well enough to get married.”

Tasha barks at that. “Do what you will, you grumpy old man. But you’d better bring it.”

It’s probably meant to be encouraging, but Steve’s nervous mind registers it as a threat. He gulps. “You don’t want to take the lead on this one?”

“I’m sure you can handle it,” Tasha assures. “But at least now the pressure’s off.”

He’s glad she thinks so, though he hasn’t quite reached the same conclusion. 

“Tell you what,” Tasha continues. “You plan the proposal, and I’ll brainstorm ways to make all of this work.”

“You’d do that?” he asks, aware of just what this will mean for her. 

“For us? Yeah. The two of us managed to end up together in spite of everything. How hard could the nitty-gritty stuff be?”

* * *

Famous last words. 

As if they’ve spoken chaos into existence, fate takes the decision out of their hands a few days later when an AIM attack causes Iron Man’s ventilation system to malfunction and forces Tasha to unmask in the middle of downtown Manhattan and all its cell phone cameras. 

There’s no mistaking that she’s been made. People are shouting her name, her real name, at her armored form, and Steve can sense the panic in her eyes. He reaches out and grabs her arm. 

“Go,” he says, nodding skyward. 

“But I — “

“Go,” he insists. “I’ll take care of things here.” 

It’s a sign of how rattled she is that she gives in so easily. The suit takes off in the direction of the tower which leaves Steve on the ground to comfort their shellshocked team. 

“He…that’s….” Clint stammers. 

“I _know_ ,” Steve insists, trying to convey the need for silence while they’re surrounded by reporters. 

“You know?” Clint answers.

“How long have you known?” Natasha breaks in, shrewdly singing the double meaning in his words. 

“I promise,” Steve insists, “we’ll explain everything just… _later._ ” This is a long-overdue discussion, but it’s one that doesn’t need to take place in public. 

Much to his relief, Nat seems to understand everything he’s not saying and ushers Clint inside, which leaves him clear to go and find Tasha. 

He finds her pacing in their press conference greenroom half an hour later, suited up but sans helmet. She turns toward him as he walks in. 

“So that happened,” she starts.

“That happened,” he affirms, trying to get a feel for her emotional state. “You okay?”

“Yeah?” she questions, then starts bobbing her head. “Yeah. Not looking forward to this next part, but it’s time.”

“At least there’s minimal property damage this time.”

“There is that.” She squares her shoulders and pulls out a pair of dark sunglasses from who knows where. Steve knows that it’s another type of mask. Putting the helmet back on would be too little too late, but this at least the glasses give her some layer of protection. And if she needs more, he’s always got her back. 

“Okay, let’s do this,” Tasha says, and the two of them walk into the courtyard to the assembled press. 

They step out into absolute chaos. The roar from the assembled reporters is deafening and the incessant camera flashes would have kept them from reaching the podium if they hadn’t walked this path so many times before. 

“I doubt any of you were expecting this,” Tasha begins. She takes an infinitesimal breath and begins. "Right, so let’s get down to it. Yes, I’m Iron Man. Obviously. Always have been, and I have no intention of giving it up in the near future. Captain Rogers and I will _briefly_ answer questions, and you can expect an official team statement at a later date.”

It’s a good statement; short, direct, and to the point. With any luck, Steve thinks, they might make it out of this in one piece. 

His glimmer of optimism disappears after the first question. 

The speaker is a short, mousy haired man who shoves his recorder as close to the podium as possible. “Ms. Stark! Why all the secrecy and lies?”

Tasha answers with what Steve guesses from experience is a highly sarcastic yet shrewd and comprehensive response, but the larger part of his brain is dominated by outrage. How dare he? How dare they? Tasha has sacrificed so much for this city, has bled and sweat and nearly died for them, and this is how they repay her? And as hard as Tasha tries to appear tough-skinned, Steve knows that this stupid press-related stuff gets to her and that she’ll spend the rest of the night mulling over all the shit that gets thrown at her today.

Steve’s so immersed in his own thoughts that it takes him a moment to register that someone has addressed a question to him. 

“Captain Rogers,” demands a reporter clustered near the front, “were you aware of Ms. Stark’s deception, or did she lie to you too?”

It’s very nearly the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He comes _so close_ to letting the man have it. But at the last second, he glances at Tasha. She’s kept it together in front of idiots with microphones at this and a hundred other press conferences. If anyone has the right to blow up, it’s her, and she hasn’t. But that doesn’t mean he can’t calmly and rationally give that reporter a firm dressing down. If someone thinks they can get away with speaking about his fiancé like that — 

_His fiancé._

They’ve privately agreed on their future, but it’s still a future that only the two of them know about. Iron Man is his acknowledged colleague, and now that the whole Tasha-is-Iron Man thing is out, it makes sense that he would be friends with Natasha Stark. But they still have to break the romantic aspect of their relationship. And technically speaking, he still has to propose with the requested amount of romance and drama. 

This could qualify. Tasha hadn’t objected to a public proposal and she did say that she didn’t want to face multiple rounds of press drama... 

Fuck it. He’s doing it. 

Steeling himself, Steve claps his hands behind his back, leans into the microphone, and serenely addresses the asshole who’d dared malign the woman he loves.

“I think you should reconsider how you’re speaking about my fiancé.”

Steve resolutely ignores the frenzied shouts of the reporters and instead glances at Tasha out of the corner of his eye. She rolls her eyes skyward, but she’s biting her lips as if she’s trying not to crack a smile. He raises one hand to block the microphone and addresses his partner. 

“Enough drama for you?” he asks.

“You are such an ass.” Her tone is exasperated but her eyes are gleaming, and Steve knows they’re okay. Because Tasha is also an ass. Their mutual assholery is half of what makes their relationship work so well, and they both are thoroughly enjoying the way the reporters are scrambling like flies on the steps below. Tasha angles her body toward him and steps closer than they usually allow themselves to get in public. “Might as well given them the full show,” she whispers softly, and the gleam in her eye lets him know that she’s about to one-up his craziness. He feels rather than sees her arm snake around his waist, and before he knows he’s being hauled against his partner and soundly kissed. 

Steve immediately decides that this is an activity that bears repeating. He loves kissing Natasha, loves bending down and pulling her in close, but kissing a suited Natasha is an equally fabulous alternative. She’s a few inches taller than him like this, and the armor beneath his chest makes it impossible to forget just who he’s actually embracing. Yeah, they’re definitely doing this again.

Tasha pulls away first. “You know, technically you still haven’t asked me the question yet.”

Turns out, he didn’t need to stress out about this so much after all, because when the moment is right, the words fall off of his lips. 

“Marry me?”

“Yes.” The arm around his waist pulls at him until his foot is resting on top of Tasha’s, and Steve automatically adjusts his weight for takeoff. And then they’re sky-bound, making the most dramatic takeoff possible from an already scandalous press conference. 

He knows there’s going to be hell to pay for this. Cable news isn’t going to shut up for a week, SHIELD’s going to be furious, and they owe their team a hell of an apology, but at least now they can have one long, heartfelt conversation instead of a series of half-truths. There’s been enough of those to last a lifetime. 

Besides, with any luck, they can use one of the inevitable tabloid pictures for their save the date cards. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entry in the 2019 "3490 fest." I was lucky enough to write for @stark-natasha, whose wishlist just so happened to touch on my favorite Stony tropes. I hope this meets your expectations!
> 
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated and obsessed over. If you're interested in more Stony content, you can find me on tumblr [here](kdm103020.tumblr.com).


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